


[act one] the sun exhales

by ladynephthyss



Series: yet hanging in the stars [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Romeo and Juliet Fusion, F/M, Gen, Inspired by Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 11:54:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30021378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladynephthyss/pseuds/ladynephthyss
Summary: hadn't we done everything?
Relationships: Gale Hawthorne & Peeta Mellark, Katniss Everdeen & Gale Hawthorne, Katniss Everdeen & Gale Hawthorne & Peeta Mellark, Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Series: yet hanging in the stars [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2197797
Comments: 8
Kudos: 5





	[act one] the sun exhales

_ part i _

.

.

.

_ When I was young, very young, somehow my mother had taken her eyes away from me. On my small legs, I wandered to the not so-frozen lake , took a few steps, and plunged in. I would never forget the sound of ice breaking, or the cold flooding my body, choking me. Even more so, the grip my mother had on me hauling me out of the dark depths of the lake and wrapping me in her shawl. She cradled me as I sobbed, shivering, while the baby, my yet to be sister, inside of her belly kicked up a storm in protest.  _

_ Even then I knew: death was a rush of cold.  _

_ There is cold now, deeper and harsher than the winter night air, completely engulfing my body. My mother, with her death grip on my wrist, is steadying me as the girls in the circle turn to my sister and point their fingers at her. The gesture is so full of sorrow it makes me want to weep. I may have started to fall, because my mother has caught me and pulled my back flush against her chest.I know her heart is beating a million miles a second.  _

_ Hadn’t we done everything? Practiced and practiced and practiced that stupid dance until our whole bodies ached? Until our feet bled? Over and over and over?  _

_ My mother had wept when my blood came, staining my bed sheets. Wept when she washed them, over and over. I didn’t understand then. When my sister’s came, and my mother lay paralyzed in bed, I understood. All the water in the world couldn’t wash away our stains of womanhood. It didn’t matter.  _

_ Prim rises to her feet, breaths heavy, but face very, very pale. All the girls kept in the circle kneel in a strange sort of curtsy, fisting the fabric of their dresses before extending their open hands out to her. My baby sister. My little dove. My own heart is being ripped away from me.  _

_ “Prim!” The strangled cry tears from my throat. My mother’s grip slackens just enough so I can move away from her and shove past the circle. This is forbidden, and more than likely to get me shot. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the Peacekeepers with their guns at the ready. But they won’t shoot. No blood. Not until- _

_ “Prim!”  _

_ Prim’s head whips around to lock eyes with me. She is scared, so, so scared.  _

_ I reach her just as she is about to mount the small circle platform, where the flames once stood. By some magic, the fire has disappeared to some unknown depth underground. With a sweep of my arm, I push her behind me. The Peacekeepers come to wrangle me away from my sister. It’s when Prim starts to cry that something inside of me goes mad.  _

_ “I volunteer!” I scream. “I volunteer as-”  _

_ Another coming, slightly stumbling up the steps beside me on the platform. I look and too familiar blue eyes, still a bit hazy from the moonflower, look back at me. Peeta Mellark stares at me, as if studying my features and oblivious to what’s going on around him. Shock, perhaps. Both of us numb. I don’t remember his name being called. I hate myself for- _

_ My body is freezing, mud-stained. Does he want to come outside? What of those dirty pigs? Does he want to die beside me? Let the Earth take us both? Rain falls in sheets. Like two frightened animals, completely startled by the other, our eyes meet- _

_ His fingers are shaking just the smallest bit. I run my thumb along the side of his hand in a soothing motion, back and forth- _

_ Running along the sharp bone underneath. “Take it,” he whispers. His voice is by my ear. No, it's inside my head. Isn’t it? Rain coming down in sheets. “Take it. Take it.”  _

_ “I’m so tired-”  _

I wake, waterlogged with sleep. As I lift my head, I wince at the crick in my neck, realizing that Peeta in his infinite kindness had nestled my head against his shoulder instead of my arms on the cold windowsill of this speeding train. He’s dreaming, and I can tell because his nose crinkles in sleep, as opposed to Gale who’s set mouth sometimes starts to twitch. Years of dogpile naps in glades and underneath trees in the too cool summers made me something of an expert in deciphering my boys' habits. I didn’t really sleep, not unless one of them was nearby, holding me. No, my dreams are filled with dark things, smoke. Sometimes fire. Losing myself. 

I hear footsteps coming towards our train car, and out of some hunter’s instinct, I nudge Peeta. His eyes immediately open, and the sight of that relaxes me. He wasn’t as quick as I was, but years of being companions, along with Gale to help our bumbling mistakes of hunting and gathering in the woods, led to the baker of all people having some kind of reflexes. 

Orestes Ambrosia strides in, changed from his suit into a number of nauseating orange. I can see Peeta trying to quell a sense of laughter. It was his favorite color, well, that of the sunset, but this vomit stain gives him amusement and me a complete understanding of how no other shade than sunset would do. 

“Come now, you two!” There’s a line of displeasure in his mouth. “You ought not to sleep in the seating cars, it’s unpleasant. You ought to have been shown to your rooms, I-” he makes some strange gesitulation, and like dumb chicks we follow this bird of a man out of the car and to our rooms. 

A bedroom, yes, but a dressing area and a private bathroom with hot and cold running water are all included. We don’t have hot water at home, unless we boil it. There are drawers filled with fine, rich clothes, and Orestes tells me to do anything I want, wear anything I want, everything is at Peeta and mine’s disposal.

“Supper is in an hour,” he says, giving me a smile and a wink. The door shuts behind him. 

I peel off my brown dress, a rare, untattered piece of clothing from two years ago, and step into the bathroom. After a few minutes of trying to figure out how to work the knobs, I step underneath the stream of hot water. I’ve never had a shower before. It’s strange, like standing in the rain only warmer. The heat relaxes my tense muscles. 

From the selection of clothes, I chose grey pants and a dark blue shirt. It’s softer than anything I have ever worn. I fasten the pin onto my shirt. After a few minutes, Orestes comes to collect me for dinner. I follow him and the swaying of feathers piled in a sort of bow on the top of his head through the narrow rocking corridor into a dining room with shiny walls. It makes me think of some silly, yellow bird. On the long table, there are an array of dishes that look to be extremely fragile. I watch Peeta pick up a saucer carefully, examining it. 

“Do you like it?” Orestes hums. “Fine china.” 

“What’s a China?” Peeta and I ask simultaneously. Our moment of synchronicity has me looking down at my bare feet with a strange and sudden flutter of embarrassment in my stomach. That hadn’t happened before. More than likely due to our current situation. If Orestes notices, he doesn’t say anything, instead frowns at the empty seat across the table. “Our Lady Eternal, where is Helena?” 

_ I stumble over a root and fall to the ground, rolling down a small hill and landing flat on my back. I scramble with my back against a tree, hug my knees to my chest in the grass and mud. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out as my body shakes and shakes. As if racking with sobs that cannot come out.  _

_ It’s only moments later that I notice the person watching me from under the shade of a tree.  _

_ My brain and my body do not connect. I am outside of myself. I can only stare at the black clad figure who steps closer. A Peacekeeper? Some Capitol informant? To my surprise and confusion, a slender hand reaches into a pocket and opens a small box. There’s a swoosh and a flame comes into existence. The stranger lights a cigarette, shakes out the match, and stamps it into the earth.  _

_ “Thinking about running off, darling? It won’t work. Believe me.”  _

Helena Abernathy, victor of the 718th Hunger Games. From what my mother could remember, a severe faced slip of a girl who at 16 impaled her final opponent in the head with an axe bounced off a forcefield. Legendary in blood, at least by the Capitol's standards. Here, in our cold space of 12, practically some kind of recluse. Most would say witch. A woman in a house in Victory Village, who seemed to like opium laced cigarettes and nothing else. My mother asserted a kind of understanding between the two of them, an occurrence that happened before I was born. I never asked. 

“I didn’t see her at all,” Peeta says, setting down the small plate. 

“You would think that a former victor would understand some manners,” he grumbles. I take my place opposite Peeta. “No matter! It has been an exhausting evening, I should think.” 

“Right,” I say, my voice dry. 

The meal comes in stages. Soft potatoes, green leaves mixed with nuts and some tangy cheese. A thick soup of beef. A tasty fruit that is small and very sweet, coming somewhere from 4. The idea of different food in other Districts has never crossed my mind. Peeta and I are stuffing our faces, alternating between forks and our fingers, prompting a look of slight disgust from Orestes. 

“ You ought to keep your manners! You’re completely ruining my digestion.” He’s picking something out of his teeth, and given the look on Peeta’s face, I’m certain he’s not the only one who wants to punch this Capitol dandy straight in the mouth. “You are tributes now, not a pair of savages from the Seam-!” 

A knife is plunged into the table, pinning the feathery plumage of a ring on his right hand to the wood. Peeta stifles a snort, and I look to see Helena, face completely calm. Black hair to her waist, sharp green eyes that reminded me too much of the feral cats that wandered near the marketplace. She’s dressed more for bed than for dinner, a sleeveless black nightgown trails a bit behind her as she walks to her seat. Peeta and I watch, astonished as she selects a potato from the pot and bites into it, chewing thoughtfully. 

“I commend you,” she says to me. Unlike Orestes, there is no mockery behind her words. “What you did for your sister was very brave. A fool’s bravery, perhaps.” She sends me a wink, stifling a snort as Orestes finally manages to dig the knife out of the table. Helena must have more strength than one would realize, because there’s is now an ugly, jagged hole in the dark finish. 

“Thank you,” I say softly. 

Orestes flutters like an angry chipmunk with a tack in its tail. “ _ Miss Abernathy! _ ” he hisses. “May I remind you that we are supposed to be setting an example for these... fine,  _ upstanding  _ young tributes who have made such a sacrifice! Not throwing knives like some feral creature!” He puntaces his point by rapping his ring against the table with each word of the last sentence. “You of all people ought to know this!” 

The smile that Helena sends his way  _ is  _ positively feral. “How could I ever forget, Orestes, when you never cease to remind me at every single opportunity?” She picks up the knife, and inspects the silver. Sighs. “ But I suppose you’re right. There will be plenty of time to throw knives in the arena. In the meantime, I suggest you cease your duck quacking and let the three of us finish our meal in peace.” The knife now plunges into the thick cut of steak on her teammate's plate. 

Helena grins. “Or would you prefer another demonstration of how I cut my  _ beef _ ?” 

Peeta lets out a snort of laughter. I wipe my hands on the tablecloth, reaching for another piece of cheese. 

Orestes purses his lips together tightly. 

When the meal is over, Peeta and I are completely stuffed to bursting. We go to another compartment to watch the recap of the Reapings all across Panem. They do their best to stagger them throughout the day so the rich folk in the Capitol could conceivably watch the whole thing at any point of the day, since none of them have to attend themselves. 

One by one, we see the other Reapings, the dances with inevitable mistakes, some intentional and some not. I sneak a glance at Peeta , who is worrying his bottom lip with his teeth as we survey our now competition in the Games. 

They had, hundreds of years before, only chosen two members from each district. The Capitol is never satiated for long, so the lots were cast. Every year, a selection of three districts, were to send four tributes instead of two. I actually feel some relief, because they rarely pick our home. Weak stock. No good for survival. Better me than Prim, in any scenario. 

A few tributes stand out. A large, imposing boy with a scar across the left side of his face from District 2. A fox-faced girl with a shock of red hair from District 5. And what makes my stomach twist, a ten year old from District 11. She has dark brown skin and eyes, but other than that, there’s something about her that reminds me of Prim in size and outward demeanour. When she gets up onto the platform, left knee bleeding from where she had fallen before, the night wind rustles through the trees as the announcers ask for volunteers. 

“No one’s coming for her,” I say softly. 

Better to let those who don’t stand a chance die quickly than those who do. There will be no one willing to take her place. 

Last of all, they show District 12. Prim being called, me running forward with no volunteer. You can’t miss the agonizing desperation in my voice as I shove my little sister behind me, as if I’m afraid they won’t hear and drag her away. But of course, they do hear. My gaze flickers to my hands as I hear myself, dazed and distant, giving blessings to Peeta on the television screen. What I now know to be Helena, leading me off and back to my mother. The commentators aren’t sure what to make of the action; it’s encouraged for mentors to have as little contact as possible with their tributes. Their job is anything but a dramatic formality. That is overshadowed by the gesture initiated by my mother in the crowd in lieu of actual applause. They cut to the anthem again, almost abruptly, and the program ends. 

Peeta is staring at the blank television screen, his blue eyes almost empty. My fingers, like he was a part of my body, find his arm and squeeze. I couldn’t afford it anymore, the sentiment of childhood, not now. With where we were going, we’d be lucky to catch a glance of each other alive a day into the Games. 

“You best get some sleep,” Helena’s voice jolts me out of my thoughts. She’s opening a silver case engraved with some symbols I can’t read, and setting a cigarette between her teeth before flicking the lighter to life. A sickly sweetness permeates the air as she takes a drag and exhales. Orestes frowns. 

“Someone of your caliber ought to know better than to entertain such a baseless habit,” he pats his hair. “It’s not good for the children.”

Peeta and I exchange a glance and leave for bed just as Helena extends him the middle finger. 

***

I jolt upright, gasping for breath. My dreams, near nightmares, are hazy and filled with dirt and choking cold. I clutch at my chest, clawing at the buttons of my pajamas before hands suddenly grasp my wrists. 

“Katniss! Katniss! It’s okay!” Arms wrap around me, my face pressed into the smooth, cool curve of a neck. For a blinding moment of confusion, I wonder how my mother is here. How she is holding me. Or if this is simply another cruel desire manifesting. But these arms are different, no familiar locket of my grandmother pressing against my cheek. 

Peeta. 

I didn’t hear the door slide open, nor his footsteps in my panic. Was I screaming? His room is all the way on the other end of the hall. My head feels funny, almost full of cotton, and his hand presses against my heart, firm and solid. 

“That’s it,” he says, voice in my ear. “Just one at a time-no, yes, just like that. Yes.” 

How does he know to do this? The only person to ever come close to calming me down from these attacks had been my father, and then myself when my mother retreated inside of the darkness of her mind. A weakness since childhood. 

Him, reasonably sane, knowing anything about the likes of these fits haunting me to excess when my father had been buried underneath the mines? It seemed impossible, even with our companionship throughout the years. The bed creaks, and utter fatigue threatens to drag me under once more. His arms wrap around my waist, holding me secure as he begins to exaggerate his breaths, flush against me. We nearly share the same breath, his steady, mine still a bit shaky. I do not cry, I am being held in gripping panic. 

But something happens over the next few minutes. As time clicks on, my breaths are coming in tandem with his own, and the tight arm around my waist begins to lessen as I start to steady myself. His fingers come up to my face, one digit just ghosting underneath my left eye. 

Our noses brush. 

Peeta takes in a breath, shuddering. Eyes questioning. _ Okay? _ I nod, hesitant. His sharp blue gaze flickers from my face to meet my eyes with surprising, almost frightening intensity. 

“I-” 

But with a sudden violence, he pulls away, scrambling to his feet. 

“I-I’m sorry,” Peeta whispers, and it may be a trick of my heartbeat in my ears, but I swear for a moment his voice breaks.

I jolt awake, the night rushing by outside of my window. Heart thudding, a gasp leaving me. Alone. 

When my eyes open again, the soft, yellow light of the morning sun is leaking through the curtains. It’s unusual for me to wake up after the sun, I suppose a habit due to years of near-starvation was hard to get rid of. I sit up, a bit bleary, and then frown at the rapping on my door. 

“Up, up, up!” Orestes’ high voice is unbearably chipper. “It’s going to be a big, big, big day!” 

Sighing, I push back the covers and slip out of the sleek pajamas, opting for the same outfit from last night, only slightly crumpled on the floor. My fingers trace the circle around the little gold bird and I think with a sudden pang of my father. Of Gale and the woods. Of my mother and Prim waking up right now. How were they faring without me? How would they fair? 

I take a glance in the mirror and see the half braided crown my mother had done was still presentable, so I decide to leave it. Not like it mattered. We’d be arriving at the Capitol soon, and there, I would be sent over to stylists and hairdressers like some prize goat at the market. 

As I head to the dining car, I look outside at the scenery rushing by. Gone were the frozen waters and dark crags of District 12. As we near closer to the heart of Panem, I see heavy peaks of mountains that cradle half hidden valleys of rich green. Massive lakes stretch beyond my vision, and for a moment I think I see a few dottings of houses here and there. 

Helena brushes by me in the dining car with a cup of black coffee and that sickly sweet cigarette between her fingers. She doesn’t spare me a passing glance, sinking down into her seat and long hair over one shoulder. Her attire, a black number with skirts that reminded me of shadows, is a stark contrast to the deep blues and greens of the dining car. Peeta fingers his fork and is pointedly focusing on the half eaten buttered roll on his plate, chewing silently. 

“Sit, sit!” says Orestes, waving me over. 

The moment I slide into the chair he pulls out for me I’m served an enormous platter of food. Eggs, ham, roasted vegetables, fried potatoes. Fruit is set in an ice bowl along with small glasses of what I guessed to be yogurt and honey. Juices are held in ornate glasses, and I glance at the pure white teacup, holding a brown liquid. It looked like coffee, but lighter in color. Almost creamy. I’d never seen it before. 

“It’s hot chocolate,” Peeta says. The way he said the word sounded like he was trying to figure out the weight of it in his mouth. “It’s good.” 

I take a sip. A shudder passes through me at the sweetness and almost too hot warmth sliding down my throat. Even though the rest of the meal calls to me, I ignore it in favor of my new sweet treat, not stopping my sips until every last bit is drained. Then I start on the eggs and ham, pausing now and again to refill my teacup. 

When my stomach feels close to bursting, I sit back and take in the others at the table. Orestes has gone to another car, presumably to check the scheduling for today. Peeta is still eating, breaking off bits of his buttered rolls and dipping them into the hot chocolate. Helena hasn’t eaten anything, only nursing another cup of coffee, and for a moment I wonder if it was more than starving in safety in District 12 that kept her so willowy, even with her being a past victor. She had enough money for food, more than enough. 

For a moment, I detest her. Her languid ease. Her boredom. No wonder our tributes from 12 never stood a chance. It isn’t just that we’re underfed or lacking training. Some of us have been strong enough to stand a chance. But we rarely, if ever, get sponsors and she’s a part of the reason why--a big part. The rich people who pay back tributes-either because they’re truly betting on them or wanting the bragging rights of picking a winner, they want someone less...feral than the likes of Helena, the town recluse. 

“What are you staring at?” she asks, voice dry. I watch her drop five sugar cubes into her cup and pour scalding coffee over them. 

“I--you’re supposed to give us advice,” I say. 

Helena gives a barking laugh. “Here’s some advice. Stay alive.” 

I exchange a look with Peeta before remembering. There’s a hardness in my boy’s eyes that surprises me. 

“That’s hilarious ,” he snaps. Suddenly, his hand shoots out and knocks the cup out of Helena’s hand. It shatters on the floor, sending the dark liquid staining the carpet and pooling towards the back of the train. 

Helena blinks, considers the sight for a moment, and without warning, backhands Peeta across the face. She must be stronger than either of us thought, because Peeta knocked from her chair, and before Helena can reach for another cup, I stab my knife right between her fingers. It’s a lucky spot, because with the rage that coursed through my body at her actions, I meant to stab her right in the back of her hand. Watch her blood stain the dark wood. She doesn’t even flinch, but almost immediately she disarms me in what seems like the blink of an eye, using the silverware to gesture to me. 

An arched eyebrow. “Well, curiouser and curiouser. Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?” She twirls the knife between her fingers. 

I don’t answer, crossing over to Peeta and helping him to his feet. My fingers reach up to the forming bruise just underneath his left eye before he looks at me, the words flickering in his blue depths and I set my mouth in a hard line, moving from him and sinking back down into my seat. 

Peeta reaches for a handful of ice from a fruit bucket before Helena stops him with a single look. “No, let it show. The audience will think you’ve mixed it up with another tribute before you’ve made it to the arena.” 

“That’s against the rules,” Peeta says. My fingers twitch when he lays a hand on his smarting cheek. 

“Only if they catch you. That bruise says you can and  _ will  _ fight. Even better, you weren’t caught.” She tosses the silverware on the table with a clatter, and fixes her sharp green eyes onto me. “Can you hit anything with that knife other than a table?” 

Irritation rises inside of me, and I grab the offending object hurling it past her head to the other side of the room. The blade lodges between two panels, making me look better than I actually am. 

Helena jerks her chin to the middle of the room. “Stand over here. Both of you.” We do, and she rises from her seat, circling us, checking our faces, prodding our limbs, even going so far as to have us show her our teeth. “Not entirely hopeless. Fit enough. You might even be attractive after the stylists get ahold of you.” 

Peeta and I don’t question this. We both knew the Hunger Games worked in the favor of the strong and the beautiful, not district runts such as ourselves. Helena fishes inside of her pocket for that case and a lighter. 

“I’ll make a deal with you. Well,” she laughs a bit around the cigarette, lighting it. I wrinkle my nose at the smell. “Not entirely a deal. You do what I say and things may just go marginally better for you.” 

“So tell us what to do!” I object. “When we get to the arena, to the Capitol, anything!” 

Helena takes a long drag and exhales smoke into our faces. The scent makes my head feel cloudy, and I shake my head to clear the feeling. It helps, but leaves a strange sort of twitchiness in my veins, like ants. This was not my heady blue of moonflower. Of our meadow in the blue hour.

“We’ll be pulling into the station. You’ll be put into the hands of your stylists. You want to know what to do. Shut up and do what they say. You’re not going to like it. Regardless, don’t resist.” 

She’s about to brush past before stopping between our bodies. Her hand lifts, and to my surprise, she brushes a lock of hair from my face. I see Peeta’s hand ball into a fist.

“Don’t fuck with me, darling. For all our sakes.” 

As the door swings shut behind her the car suddenly goes dark. There are still a few lights inside, but outside it’s as if night has fallen. We must be in the tunnel. The mountains form a natural barrier between the Capitol and the eastern districts. It’s almost impossible to enter from the east except through the tunnels, given anyone who wanted to do otherwise would have to scale the freezing cliffs. One of the many reasons the war was lost. 

Peeta and I stand in silence as the train speeds along. The tunnel goes on and on and I think of the tons of rock above us, separating me from the sky. My chest tightens at the thought, and my father’s face flashes before my eyes. He must hear the change in my breathing, because in the dark, Peeta’s fingers take a quick moment to trace my knuckles. 

“Atme.” 

I inhale. A squeeze of my fingers. Exhale. 

Finally, the train begins to slow, and bright light floods the compartment. We can’t help it. Both Peeta and I run to the window to see what we’ve only seen on television, the Capitol, the ruling, beating, never-ending heart of Panem. 

The cameras haven’t lied about its grandeur. The buildings are a multitude of columned faces, glistening white in the sun. A massive expanse of water stretches out below us, and I can see docked ships rocking this way and that in the bustling port. One of the many trading docks. Beyond that, cars and carriages roll down paved streets. Oddly dressed people in heavy skirts and multicolored pants walk around underneath parasols and hats, their bizarre updos and painted faces showing their status, as well as never missing a meal in their lives. One woman leads a large, spotted wild cat on a leash. All the colors seem artificial, almost painful. The reds are too deep, the greens too bright. The biggest building, only known as The Ministry, looms above it all, a massive architectural presence, each available archway and window sporting the familiar flag of our country: dark green with a snake entangling a bird, similar to the one on my pin. It’s the seat of the President, and the only public place known to citizens that she meets with the most important officials. 

The train begins to descend from its height. As it does, I notice the people begin to point at us excitedly as they recognize a tribute train rolling into the city. We’re the last to arrive, given that the Reaping always happens in numerical order of district. Our arrival means the Games have really started.

They can’t wait to watch us die. 

I step away, stomach churning before looking in shock at Peeta , who is actually smiling and waving at the hoard of gawking and cheering characters. He only stops when the train pulls into the inner sanctum of the station, blocking us from their view. 

He sees me starting and shrugs. “Who knows? Might be better to smile. They’re rich.” 

I’ve misjudged him. His actions. The helplessness at the Reaping, his ghost comfort last night, and now, his waving and smiling. 

Behind my boy with the bread is someone who will fight. Someone who will kill me. 

Someone who will laugh and feast on my corpse. 


End file.
